Inside competition
by Ark Q
Summary: And there was nothing he and I could add to that, because it was bloody true: I should've not been there. A seriously weird, fucked up trick of destiny had put his bad temper with my bad temper and then waited for us to knock each other out. Or to bond, who knows. [StuartxGraham]


**A/N Okay so this may be my very first FF in English, so please be merciful and help me improve my language skills!**

***INSIDE COMPETITION***

CHAPTER ONE "That kind of guy"

I'm that kind of guy who prefers drowning himself in the Facebook dashboard rather than listening to some squirting chatterbox whining about his microscopic problems. I'm that kind of guy who makes friends online, keeps them online and when forced to meet them face to face spends the whole time regretting the beautiful connection he had when he wasn't obliged to actually join the conversation. I'm that kind of guy who isn't shy, isn't emotionless: just existentially bored by human bullshit.

"_Wrong._" My voice declared. "During the Crash of '29 preceding the Great Depression, margin requirements were only 10%. Brokerage firms, in other words, would lend $9 for every $1 an investor had deposited."

"And who the hell are you, kid?"

"When the market fell, brokers called in these loans, which could not be paid back. Banks began to fail as debtors defaulted on debt and yada yada yada. It's called Wikipedia, sir."

The room fell in a quiet and most appreciated stage of piece. A little bit of silence, thank God. After all, my ears were literally pounding. I got to the point I couldn't even focus on the my own thoughts running across my brain. Yes, because I'm also the kind of guy who zones out so many times he's created his own autopilot technique. But for once my autopilot had failed me.

That bastard.

"First of all, sir." I started clarifying without even taking a break from pressing the fingertips on my phone keyboard. "I am not a _kid_'. Thank you."

"That's…"

"Second: if my son was doing an internship at Google, I may – but I say may- consider being slightly more likely to look up the bullshit I wanna use to threat him right on the search engine my kid's probably gonna work with for the rest of his life. And third, to answer your question, sir: who am I? I'm that kind of guy who has a very low breaking point for dolled up douchebags and, thanks to you, he has just reached it."

Silence again.

I had been laying on one of the highest bench, on the left corner of the bleachers, for more than a couple of hours now. Haven't even moved a muscle. Just been exploring the virtual globe through the small display of my iphone, shoes off and head on a comfy pillow. That had been until someone had broken into my bubble of isolation and shattered it into millions of pieces. No headphones could have possibility protected me from the storm of angry words suddenly bursting into the room. I had peeped the source of the anger and found myself amused. Then time passed, more words came out.

And amusement was followed by confusion.

Much more time, many more words: confusion was followed by discomfort, discomfort was followed by embarrassment, by bitterness, offence, exasperation...

"Why don't you make yourself a favour and finish your masturbation session somewhere else, kid. We're in the middle of a discussion here." His Hitler-style voice was really getting to my nerves.

"Why don't you give the forty districts of San Francisco a rest and finish your 'discussion' after two litres of camomile and a cold shower, pal." I shot back, not even bothering looking at him. "There're people loosing their hearing here."

"I didn't know raising a little bit a voice was a crime."

"No shit."

"I'm gonna tell you something, kid." The man began, passing from threatening to patronizing in the blink of an eye. "Try spending a little less time on Twitter and more time learning valid lessons of respect for the elders. Am I understood."

"What a great piece of advice from someone who's been yelling like a monkey in the middle of a meeting room at almost midnight."

"Who are you, the Google volume police service?"

No idea if I was more annoyed or entertained by then: "You can call me that. " I giggled. "And I'm thinking to call you the man who made Graham Hewtrey the motherfucker he is today."

"Glad you've met my son."he laughed. "And now what about moving to another room so that Graham and I can finish our little meeting, thank you and have a nice evening."

Sure, I could have simply wriggled out of there leaving the two of them at their family reunion. It was actually fairly unusual for me to get involved in something that was clearly outside of my jurisdiction. Was it empathy for Graham, for all the energy his dad was putting into a speech that hadn't any other goal but humiliate his own son? Naah: no way. Maybe I was just fed up with the fact that my moment of piece and quiet had been destroyed by two generations of dickheads.

That being said, one thing was certain: the bastard wasn't going to quit. And neither was I. So after switching my phone off and brutally fired my autopilot – which, by the way, was definitely in need of a serious inspection- I finally sat up. And finally gave a long, big look at them.

Midnight.

The darkness was almost full - not to my surprise, since that was the exact reason I chose that room in the first place. The only colourful light that cleared the outlines of the objects was coming from a wave of small light bulbs chaotically spread on the pavement above us. But I didn't need a lighthouse to realize that who was standing in the centre of the room was one taught of a daddy. Graham and he had a lot in common: same black curly hair, same stubborn jaw, fake aristocratic attitude and that sugary Harry Potter accent that literally drove me crazy- in the very bad way. Mister Hawtrey was a tall, muscular oak, elegantly wrapped up in a beige dust coat from some cheap movie from the eighties. His expensive pair of shoes matched his branded pair of trousers and piercing pair of eyes icily pointed at my direction. Face of a surgeon, possibly. Or of a body-building trainer.

Graham was, instead, a little less polished than usual. He was wearing jeans and a gray sloppy t-shirt; his entire figure was tired and messy as he had been caught in the middle of a nightmare. He hadn't spoken once since his dad started the vicious pep talk.

"No honestly: do you believe your son is deaf or something?" I snorted looking at him. "Which would be quite understandable, seen you ability to go ultrasound, but…I know, I personally think after the tenth time you've highlighted how much of a loser he is, we all have quite gotten the point- he and I and the forty districts of San Francisco."

He was trying to murder me with his snotty stare, it was sure: "This is really none of your business."

"Very true." I agreed, finally standing up. "In fact my only business consists of working my ass off to pass an internship that's gonna lead me eventually to a job in one of the richest company in the United States of America. And so does you son's." I was peacefully strolling down the stairs, now, hands in the pockets of my jeans and a big, fat smile printed on my lips. "So here's my advice to you, mister Hawtrey: back off and let us focus on what we do best. We're here to work."

He laughed: "You know what? You are most definitely right, my friend. This is what I've been trying to tell my son…"and he turned towards Graham smiling. "Who apparently lacks the ability to catch the meaning of one tiny word."

"Asshole? He got that, trust me."

"…_Success_."

My step fell on the floor.

The man seamed even taller and bulgier from there, but it was too late for me to surrender anyway. So I kept on walking in their direction, while mister Hewtrey pepped his son on the back, joyfully exclaiming: "I want him to be the best he can be. I want him to strive, to make his family proud, I want him to be…"

And my heartbeat stopped.

Just stopped.

I'm serious, it must have been the most bizarre feeling I'd ever felt in my life. The man kept on talking bullshit and I couldn't understand a word as too busy grasping air into my lungs and pumping blood into my veins. Don't get me wrong, it was nothing like a was hit by missile attack or an alien invasion, it's just that I usually…I don't.

I'm that kind of guy who does _not_ connect with people, right?

Never.

No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I care about someone, it always seem I don't care _enough_. Yes, your honour, I am incapable of experiencing a true real bond with somebody else but the voice control on my phone.

…So how the hell was possible that just one stupid eye contact could have made me _feel_ what Graham was really feeling? Tell me. It happened fast and creepy, just the time to get overwhelmed with a sense of such frustration I got the sudden urge to scream out as loud as I possibly could.

It may sound absurd but trust me: no alien invasion could ever measure up to that.

I looked away, rapidly cleared my throat: "Yeah very exciting, sir, but what about what the guy wants?"

Meanwhile I was getting closer and closer to them.

"Graham clearly wants all this." he stated, rounding Graham's shoulders with his arm. "Everyone likes being the best, don't they?"

"What if Graham's not 'everyone'."

"I don't even know what you're trying to imply, my friend. But can we speak frankly?"

"Were we not already?"

"I don't give a damn."

"Right." I nodded. "Then sir you can begin packing your shit, turning around and running back to wherever infernal hole you come from before I decide to move my hand off my dick and call someone who will be most enthusiastic to kick you out of here."

"Oh my." The man's voice sarcastically sighed, watching me getting closer. "The kid really thinks I can feel intimidated by a sixteen years old geek who spends his days watching porn in his dorm."

"This is not your playground, mister Hawtrey."

"Look at that: he's good, he's really good."

"And you haven't seen the best part yet."

"I'm starting to fear you got a gun in the back of your belt."

"Almost." I smirked. "I got something better."

My fingers pulled out the phone like a rifle. I was tempted to charge it but I forgot it didn't have a trigger. Nevertheless, I handled it like it was ready to shoot and lifted it in air until I got the phone keyboard two millimetres from my thumb: "One call, Mister Hawtrey."

"Uuuh the dialing threat."

"The dialing threat, exactly." I repeated. "You want me to count to three, just to step up some pressure?"

"You've clearly watched too much television, son."

"One."I started.

A laugh.

"Two."

He was shaking his head. The next words came in a whisper: "You little, sad, nerdy punk."

"Well now we know where Graham took his charming attitude, don't we."

I was right in front of him by then. It felt like standing in the middle of the combat radius of a fire-breathing dragon, but who cared. At that point nothing mattered more than pissing him off till the moment he realized I wasn't worthy all the fuss.

And that moment came sooner than expected. To my surprise, all of a sudden he turned towards his son with a finger pointed at him: "Call me. Tomorrow." Graham didn't answer.

Last murdering shot at my innocent smile, last nasty comment I didn't even cared to register and he was gone. Puff. Vanished in a cloud of condescendence.

Mission accomplished.

I felt ecstatic. Now I could finally enjoy the rest of the night, now I could 000 , that was it, that was the end, everything would have come back to normal, everything was boring and stupid as always, right?, everything was...!

_Wrong._

Because what followed was the real tricky part.

Now that the former enemy was gone, the whole thing came out as a even-not-that-funny joke: me protecting the bad guy of the story from his evil father? Drawing my enchanted sword to save the poor damsel in distress, what the f…? Suddenly looking at Graham seemed a little too hard for me. So I decided to bring my peace and quite to my room, coldly mumble something like "you're welcome" and take off.

I was already ten feet away from him when his voice reached me.


End file.
